


Theirs

by CatAvalon (CazinaIna)



Series: Forever and Always [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Let Potya Be An Only Child 2k17, Living Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, future thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 13:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazinaIna/pseuds/CatAvalon
Summary: Stupid,Yuri scolds himself, biting down on his forearm,You’re twenty. You’re not even engaged. You’ve never wanted kids before. But kids with Beka-theirkids- is something different, something maybe Yuri wants too- in the future, of course.





	Theirs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheInsaneFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInsaneFox/gifts).



> Also lovingly known as: Leopard Print Box
> 
> Well this was supposed to be bath smut, but obviously that didn't happen.
> 
> A very belated birthday to the wonderful TheInsaneFox, one of the most sweetest and loveliest people I've had the pleasure of meeting through ao3 and tumblr ^.*
> 
> I hope you like this- it really wasn't what I was planning but sometimes that's just how things go xD
> 
> a big shout out to Neveraines and ded_i_am_just_ded for supporting and checking over this for me ^.*

“I feel like shit.” It isn’t his usual greeting, but Otabek doesn’t seem too surprised to hear it. Even in the tiny box at the bottom of his phone screen, Yuri can see that he doesn’t just feel like shit, he looks it too. Face crimson and clammy from training, hair kinking at the roots with a mixture of sweat and grease, circles swallowing his under eyes in sallow shades of a sleepless night- Yuri is a mess, both physically and mentally. “I wish you were here.”

“I know, Yura.” Otabek’s sister had just given birth to her first child, a chubby baby girl with a shock of that thick, trademark Altin hair already tufting from her scalp. _She’s cute_ is what Beka had captioned the first picture he’d sent to Yuri, arms cradling a bundle of pink blankets and even pinker skin to his chest, _but not as cute as you._ “I’ll be back soon.”

“Two days isn’t _soon_ ,” he whines, which is stupid, because two days is nothing in comparison to the two months he used to wait for fleeting moments spent tangled together in hotel rooms. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says, and Beka has the indecency to use that tender smile reserved only for him, quirking higher up on the left with a dimple that Yuri’s tasted countless times. In a moment of drunken weakness, Yuri had confessed that Otabek’s smile reminded him of them- _because you’re shorter and perfect and I’m taller and not._ Now, Yuri flushes, from both the memory and the image held between his hands. Even separated through the pixelation of thousands of miles, Beka’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I’ve bought you some _Dream Cakes_ ,” Beka says, because Yuri’s spent too much time just staring to actually say anything. He should be embarrassed, but he isn’t. It’s so easy to get lost in the tiny details of Otabek’s face. Right now he’s mesmerised by the stubble that shadows his jaw, hoping that it will still be there for him to scratch his nails over when he gets home. “If you’re tired, I can call back later.”

“No!” The word bounces loudly off the bedroom walls, can be heard in the tinny echo coming from his speakers. “No. Stay a bit longer. I just want to hear your voice.”

Yuri throws himself backwards onto his bed- _their_ bed. Every time he remembers- _their_ apartment, _their_ curtains, _their_ bathroom sink- his blood feels a little warmer, those five little letters holding no significance by themselves but everything with something else. Potya- _their_ cat- jumps up onto the sheets, the ones Yuri hates because they’re what he’s dubbed boring Beka brown, and starts kneading at a leopard print pillow.

Otabek begins to tell him about his day back in Almaty: about his overbearing mother bossing around hospital staff, the adventures of babysitting his youngest sister Rani and their not-so-secret trip to get ice cream where she’d spilt double chocolate down her dress, of nervous conversations with his brother-in-law about newborns- which was pretty uneventful considering neither of them had any experience with them. It’s so easy to get lost in the timbre of Beka’s voice, to let it wash over him, to soothe the ache in his muscles, to relieve the tension that’s been building in his head since the minute he’s left. It’s almost as if he’s right there next to him, murmuring in his ear. If Yuri closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he is.

Except he’s not.

“Go and take a bath, Yura,” Otabek says as he balance precariously on the edge of consciousness. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“In a minute,” he sighs lazily, rolling onto his stomach so he can scratch behind Potya’s ears. The cat’s purr is comforting, but not in the same way as the smell of Otabek’s neck is.

“Now, _kotenok_ , before you fall asleep.”

“Such a _dad_ ,” Yuri snorts, face instantly flushing as his thoughts race back to the photo of Beka, baby in arms, the image of domestic bliss. He looked good, _too_ good, holding another life as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It makes Yuri think about the future- _their_ future- and whether a child belonged in it.

 _Stupid_ , Yuri scolds himself, biting down on his forearm, _You’re twenty. You’re not even engaged. You’ve never wanted kids before._ But kids with Beka- _their_ kids- is something different, something maybe Yuri wants too- in the future, of course.  

“I don’t see you getting up,” Otabek sing-songs as musically as possible for someone with a voice that can only be described as monotone.

“Fine.” Yuri stretches, stands, shuffles into _their_ ensuite where he’s greeted with his ghastly reflection and towels still strewn from yesterday’s shower. “Where are you right now?”

“Uh… just in my room.” There are golden hairs clinging to the porcelain tub, creeping out of the drain like sun-starved vines. Otabek hates it, hates how Yuri makes patterns with it on the shower walls, hates the tumbleweeds of it that roll across the bathmat as the door’s opened- but it’s a price he’s willing to pay, one where in return he can stroke and play and _pull_.

“Does that mean you’re by yourself?” Yuri asks, opening the medicine cupboard and propping his phone up against a half empty bottle of mouthwash. Without waiting for a response, he’s yanking his shirt over his head and dropping it to the floor. After letting the water run for a while, he shoves the plug in and raises a questioning brow at Otabek, who’s continues to just let his eyes roam over Yuri’s naked torso. “Well?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, shaking his head lightly. “Yeah, I’m by myself.”

“Good.” There were two ways Yuri could play this: torturously slow, a tormenting tease of clothes torn away, a dance of wandering hands and bitten lips, of fluttering eyelashes and the sway of hips. Or, it could be fast and to the point, stripped bare with nothing to hide.

Or he can just get in the bath.

The tub’s halfway filled and frothing with vanilla scented bubbles when Beka finally speaks again. “Go and make yourself some tea.”

“Why?” He’s trailing his hand through the foam, feeling it separate through his fingers. Steam swirls in smoky tendrils, breathing against the tiles, and the floor is slippery with condensation as he pads back to his phone.

“You always drink tea in the bath.”

 _Yeah, when you make it for me,_ but Yuri just shrugs, figuring that at least the water will be ready by the time he’s brewed a cup of Earl Grey. “Be right back then, I guess.”

And just because he can, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his leggings and proceeds strip out of them, and then his boxers too, and Yuri makes sure to swing his hips as he saunters away. A deep groan follows in his footsteps, and Potya looks up at him, judging his naked form with scrutinising silver eyes.

“What?” Yuri hisses, because it’s not like his cat’s hasn’t seen him naked before. There’s a few slow blinks, a twitch of the nose that could be read as disgust, and then he’s settling back on his paws, seemingly ignoring his master’s choice of undress. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

When he reaches the kitchen, Yuri really regrets not picking up a robe or something, because _damn_ is it cold. And drafty-they still hadn’t gotten the window above the fridge fixed, another thing on _their_ to-do list they didn’t seem to have time for. Gooseflesh pucker the skin of Yuri’s arms as he switches on the kettle, a noisy old thing that hissed and gurgled- replacing it was another thing on _their_ to-do list.

It’s odd, leaning naked against the countertop- not that Yuri’s never done it before. Normally, Beka’s there beside him, or behind him, or _inside_ him, and it doesn’t feel lonely, not like it does now. More than anything, Yuri wants to feel the warmth of Beka’s breath stirring his hair as he’s stirring his tea, to feel the press of his lips against his nape, between his shoulder blades, tongue hot as it trails over the grooves of his spine. He just wants _him_ , breathing underneath him, a heartbeat below his ear, a physical thing he can touch and taste and take in his arms.

Two days stretch before him like an eternity, the traces of _their_ life together haunting him, memories once sweet fading into little longing ghosts of something out of reach. He uses Otabek’s mug just because he can, chipped and fading with it’s _I heart Kazakhstan_ motif, heaps two spoons of sugar to balance out the bitterness that sits on his tongue. Stares at the polaroid tacked to the fridge door, of them sat on the couch, Potya in Yuri’s lap, and Yuri in Beka’s- _their_ family.

 _Quit it_ , he chides himself, because now there are stupid tears in his eyes, and it’s only two days, but Yuri misses him so much.

Sniffling, he composes himself in the microwave door, ignores how his lip trembles at the thought of seeing Beka, but not seeing him for real, and walks back through the apartment. Potya’s gone when he reaches the bedroom, but Yuri can hear the jingle of his bell from the bathroom, probably playing with one of those balls of hair or, god forbid, his dirty underwear.

“What are you doing, baby…”

Potya’s playing alright, but it’s with something that moves, something that tickles under his chin and flicks the tip of his nose. A _hand-_ a hand that grows into a branch of an arm, the burr of an elbow, the trunk of a chest, with thick thighs rooted beneath the water in the bath.

 _Impossible_.

But it’s not, because Otabek’s there, looking up at him with parted lips. Or rather, he’s exploring the expanse of Yuri’s exposed flesh with his eyes, a sly little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. All Yuri can do is shudder in both anger and arousal, the hand holding the mug tightening because _how fucking dare he do this to him?_ Of course Beka pretends to be oblivious of his mental anguish, reaching out a hand from him, tilting his head as he says, “Well, are you going to get in then?”

Water ripples and parts as a very Yuri shaped space appears between Otabek’s legs, and _God_ Yuri wants to settle between them, wants to feel the muscle of his chest pressed into his back, the brush of lips against his neck- but Yuri’s is mad. Frustratingly mad, to the point where he can feel himself quivering. Not even the sight of Otabek’s dick bobbing heavily between his legs is enough to calm him down.

“What the fuck,” he seethes through gritted teeth, slamming Beka’s stupid mug down hard on the counter, tea spilling over the edges and dripping down the valley of Yuri’s knuckles. He doesn’t feel the burn, though, the choleric concoction of swirling relief and disbelief a much more overpowering heat beneath his skin. “You absolute asshole… What the fuck!”

Potya darts from the room, a blur of white fur that whips Yuri’s ankles as he scarpers. Letting his gaze fall, Yuri eyes the biker boots tucked by the toilet bowl, the clothes neatly folded on the lid- fuck, even his own clothes had been picked up.

 _But… I was gone for like two minutes_.

“I was expecting a bit of a warmer welcome, Yura.” That’s all it takes for him to drop to his knees, throwing his arms around Beka’s neck and just absorbing every little detail of his scent. Woodsy cologne, citrus body wash, hair gel, all diluted with stale plane air and softened with the sweet smelling steam that’s dampened his skin. It’s too much, having him here again after everything he’s just thought, back in _their_ apartment, _their_ home.

“Are you crying?”  Gentle hands venture across Yuri’s skin, leaving trickling trails wherever they go- travelling to the peak of his shoulders, roaming back down to the narrow taper of his waist before finally settling just above his ass, thumbs finding their home where they fit perfectly in twin dimples.

“No,” Yuri grunts, but his voice is thin and airy, probably because his throat is tight with tears. “Asshole.”

They stay twined like that, Yuri’s hip digging painfully into the porcelain as he hides tears in the steam slicked skin of Beka’s neck until Otabek finally pulls away. Fingers smooth over his cheekbones, catching falling drops on the tips like fresh morning dew. Yuri can’t bear to look at him when he’s like this, weak and vulnerable and so obviously out of control of his own emotions. Of course he wasn’t angry, just shocked, and Yuri is notorious for not handling surprises well, needing to be in control and able to calculate every little thing.

But this surprise? This one he could accept.

“Look at me,” Otabek murmurs, hooking a finger under his chin. Yuri tries, he really does, not to pout, but his lower lip stubbornly sticks out. Beka rests the tip of his thumb on the swell, the saltiness of his tears seeping between his teeth and swimming on his tongue. “I love you, Yura.”

The first kiss is slow, tender, and Yuri’s eyes flutter close as a sigh is swallowed from his lips. There’s a feather soft brush to his chin, to the corner of his mouth turned up in a sacred smile, a nip to the slope of his cupid’s bow before Otabek rests their noses together, letting his breath dance over Yuri’s sensitised skin.

“I missed you so much,” Yuri confesses, nuzzling up Beka’s bridge and across his strong brow. No memory can do any justice, can capture the buttery leather feel of his skin, the little hitches caught in Beka’s throat as Yuri places kisses to the delicate skin of his eyelids, the growl that rumbles through his chest when Yuri sucks the lobe of his ear into his mouth, biting as Otabek desperately tries to bring him closer. “Why are you here?”

“Get in, and then we can talk.”

So with as much grace as he can muster, Yuri clambers into the bath, right in the space that Beka has created for him. Everything is warm, the water that licks at his ribs, the press of Beka’s thigh against his own, the feeling that blossoms in his stomach as a hand reaches to twine their fingers together. With his other, Beka strokes his hair, and Yuri wants to complain, wants to tell him to at least wait until he’s rinsed out the sweat that still dampens his roots, but the scrape of nails against his scalp feels too good, and he allows himself to sink lower and enjoy the feeling of having Beka right here, where he belongs.

“You’ll wash it for me, right?” Yuri asks, running his nose over the curve of his bicep. Beka just hums, an unspoken yes pressed in the form of a kiss to the shell of his ear. “How is everyone?”

“Tired.” A sponge is retrieved from a hook on the wall, and Beka lathers it up with Yuri’s favourite bergamot and jasmine shower cream. “A lot of sleepless nights.”

Otabek begins to massage circles over his body: under his arms, the sensitive skin at the juncture of his thigh, where he’s ticklish behind the knee. It feels like he’s in heaven, clouds clinging to his chest and interwoven into the ends of his hair, the gentle lullaby Otabek hums a hymn that soothes all the troubles in his soul. Yuri can’t help the purr of pleasure as he leans back further, ignores the jut of clavicle that digs into his scalp as Otabek gently washes his soft dick by hand. It’s always this that feels the most intimate, almost innocent beside the few parting strokes that make it twitch with interest. “Parenthood is much more intense than it looks.”

Now it’s Yuri’s turn to hum, his only experience being watching Viktor and Yuuri fawn over their six month old, Aiko. As Yuri moves to straddle Otabek’s hips, he can’t help but imagine them in that position. Otabek, lit only by the dim glow of a nightlight, swaying a gurgling newborn in his arms, singing sweet lullabies to the tiny life in his arms instead of to Yuri. Sat on the end of a twin sized bed, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he reads fairy tales in his deep Kazakh lilt. Yuri would even sell his beloved Mini Cooper so they could buy some ridiculous people carrier.

 _It would be worth it_ , he thinks, rubbing figure eights into his back with the sponge. _To have a family of their own._

Yuri chases the trail of suds he leaves on Otabek’s skin with his mouth, sucking soapy kisses up the column of his throat, biting at his Adam’s Apple until Beka’s squirming beneath him, hands splayed across the curve of his ass.

 _I wonder if he wants it too_ , and all he can think about is the picture on his phone of Beka holding his niece, even when long fingers threaten to dip into places that’ll make him lose his track of thought.   _He’d make a good dad_.

It takes Yuri a few moments to build up the courage to ask, inexplicably feeling exposed despite the comfort of their bare bodies brushing against each other with every breath. _Just spit it out. It’s not that big of a question. Do you want kids? The conversation will come up one day anyway. Just do it. Do it. Just-_

“I want kids,” is what he says instead, followed by a very loud _shit_ bitten into the flesh of Beka’s shoulder. Yuri can feel the full body blush that overheats his skin, can feel the rouge that deepens even where his skin is already flushed from the kiss of hot water, and the anguished whimper that escapes his lips sounds harrowingly loud as it echoes off the tiles.

“You do?” is all Beka says, squeezing his glutes, rubbing his cheek against Yuri’s, stubble prickling his already burning skin.

“Well, yeah,” he admits, because there’s no use in hiding now. Taking a moment to compose himself, Yuri finally sits back on Beka’s thighs to look at him properly, to take in the slight shine to his eyes, the subtle raise of his brow that you’d only be able to see if you were looking for it. It’s an expression of not just surprise, but excitement too. “I do, if it’s with you.”

Otabek closes the gap between them with a different kind of eagerness, one that’s normally reserved for the sight of Yuri in leather and lace, a pair of impossibly small panties peeking out from under the hem of Beka’s biker jacket. It’s hot, heady, an intoxicating dance of tongue and teeth that leaves Yuri shuddering in the circle of strong arms. It’s only when he feels the hardness pressed into his hip that he breaks away, a spider web of saliva connecting them in a way that should be embarrassing, but is simply sexy.

“Obviously you want it too,” Yuri exhales, gently biting Beka’s lower lip as he lightly palms at his dick. It twitches to life under his touch, thickening quickly even with the barely-there touches Yuri gives it.“You _really_ want it.”

“Yura,” he groans, bucking his hips to try and get more friction. Yuri makes to cup Beka’s cheek, but instead reaches for the shampoo bottle, causing a frustrated grunt to be smothered into his jaw.

“Let’s wash my hair before we christen the water, yeah?”

Water is teasingly splashed, laugher creating ocean waves that spill over the side of the tub, and Yuri hasn’t felt happier in days.

*

Ultimately, Yuri ends up washing his own hair because Beka still doesn’t understand the concept of leave-in conditioner even after three years of dating. Yuri’s bathing routine is extensive and exact, what product he uses first, the order in which he shaves, the amount of moisturiser he uses. Moments where Otabek gets impatient are rare, yet today his self-control is seemingly non-existent. Their first orgasm is shared before the 4-6 wait time for his hair mask is up, the second when only one of his legs are hairless.

Yuri has to rinse not only conditioner, but semen out of his hair in the shower.

After grumpily brushing his teeth under the sunny glow of Beka’s sated smile, Yuri sprawls out on the bed, spying Beka shaving through the crack in the door. There’s a towel slung low around his waist, a force of habit rather than a necessity, that does nothing but emphasise the glorious v-lines that only lead Yuri’s attention down south. Rolling onto his back, Yuri can’t help but let out a little content sigh that earns him yet another mewl from Potya; he’s in a mood because Beka’s home, obviously thinking he’s back to second best- which isn’t true in the slightest but no amount of cooing and crooning can convince him otherwise.

Yuri’s wearing a shirt- Otabek’s, of course, still retaining warmth from a day of wear- because after all these years, he still feels uncomfortable being naked in front of his cat. He tugs the collar over his nose just so he can breathe in Beka’s scent, over the bruises he can feel blossoming across his throat, in the hollow of his clavicle. It’s something Yuri secretly loves, being marked by Beka, having proof that he belongs to him in berry blemishes stained on pale skin. It’s something he’s only allowed to indulge in on the off-season, at least visibly, anyway. Yuri likes the tender ache left on the apex of his thighs, over the beat of his heart where the reminder pulses through his chest, but he likes looking in the mirror and seeing them peek from the horizon of his shirt, the fleeting colours before dawn, even more.

Maybe one day he’ll have more proof of their love- not that he expressly needs it. There’s just something in the thought of sharing a last name ( _Plisetsky-Altin. Altin-Plisetsky_ . Simply _Altin._ ) that makes Yuri’s toes curl. A golden band to match his new golden surname, a constant weight that doesn’t compare to the density of his love but brings a comfort that Yuri hadn’t known he’d craved until now.

And then maybe one day they’ll have a combination of their genetics. Beka’s bronze skin and Yuri’s emerald eyes. Or maybe even Yuri’s pale skin and Beka’s dark eyes. It wouldn’t matter, not in the slightest, even if the child wasn’t biologically theirs. Maybe they could even ask Beka’s sister to be an egg donor, like Mari had been for Yuuri and Viktor. Even Mila had offered her womb to them, albeit drunkenly after hours of champagne and shots. _As long as I get a ride on the dark horse for my troubles_ she had slurred, eyeing Beka up and down despite having Sara’s arm wrapped around her waist.

 _Don’t get ahead of yourself,_ Yuri chides himself when Otabek walks back into the room, humming under his breath. _Not engaged, remember?_ A shadow falls over him, and Beka’s before him, simply staring in the silent way he does sometimes. Normally it’s when he doesn’t think Yuri’s looking, but now he isn’t hiding the arrant adoration that colours his cheeks and churns the smoky depths of his eyes.

With a smirk, Yuri toes at the towel until it drops to the floor, running his foot down the length between Beka’s thighs with one teasing stroke before sitting up in an unspoken request. Otabek slips behind him, and Yuri rests his head on his favourite pillow- Beka’s lap. A hand works its way through the tangles of his hair, shortly followed by a brush, and there really is nowhere Yuri would rather be. Every so often he’ll strain to press kisses into the smooth skin of his thigh, enjoying the feel of muscle twitching under his lips with just the barest touch.

Yeah, he wanted every day to be like this.

“What’re you thinking?” Otabek asks. The brush has been forgotten, and his fingers are buried deep in fields of gold, giving a head massage so good Yuri’s eyes keep rolling back into his skull. Little placated purrs keep spilling from parted lips, and inexplicably, his mind is filled with Beyonce singing _if you liked it, then you should have put a ring on it_ on repeat.

“I’m wondering when you’re gonna ask me to marry you,” he says as if it’s the most natural thought to verbalise, when internally Yuri’s freaking out. _It’s no more of a bombshell than saying you want kids. You might as well be completely honest._ The hands at his root still, and Beka’s head clouds his vision of the ceiling like a partial eclipse.

“You know, you could always ask _me_ to marry _you_ ,” he muses, tracing the curve of his cheekbone,  drawing a crescent to the corner of his mouth. “I’d say yes.”

“B-but…” The words die on Yuri’s tongue, because really he doesn’t know what he’d say anyway. In his imagination, it had always been Beka down on one knee, with the ring box nestled in the palm of his hand, when in reality it could be Yuri. Could be Yuri awkwardly asking the Altin’s permission for their son’s hand, could be him conferring with Viktor about jewellers, obsessing over finding the perfect symbol of their love. It seems awfully selfish to think that he hadn’t even considered being the one doing the actual proposing.“I didn’t even _think_ of that.”

“Don’t worry about it, Yura.” There’s some shuffling, and now they’re lying to face each other, legs tangled, as well as their fingers. Beka leans in to leave a lingering kiss to his forehead before resting them together. “I’m working on it.”

A storm swirls in the pit of his stomach, one that sends little flashes of lightening buzzing through his veins. Yuri’s unable to stop himself from claiming Beka’s lips, kissing him deeply till he’s dizzy and breathless, rain clouds fogging his mind and threatening to burst behind his eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Yura,” he murmurs, lips still brushing. For a moment they just lie there, revelling in their closeness, the silence that only their gentle exhales and beating hearts break. Then it’s punctured by a jealous meow, and Potya is squeezing himself in the non-existent space between them, grudge seemingly forgotten. Laughing, Yuri moves to accommodate the only baby he needs in his life right now.

Then he levels Otabek with his most serious stare.

“If the box isn’t leopard print it’s going to be a hard no.”

*

“Beka?”

“Hmm?”

It’s still light outside but that hadn’t stopped them from dozing the afternoon away. A strip of light bleeds through the broken blinds, yet another thing on their to-do list, and sets the ends of Yuri’s hair on fire.

“Where were you? When you called?” It’s a question he had forgotten to ask, lost in the heat of the moment, but now it’s there, dancing in the forefront of his mind, and he knows sleep will evade him until he has answers.

“Just outside the door.”

“You planned it, didn’t you?” he accuses, smacking a fist to Beka’s bare chest. “ _Go make some tea_ , you said. Fucking plotting bastard. You were always coming home early, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Otabek admits, capturing the hand that still lies curled against his sternum and tugging until Yuri’s half laying on top of him. “I was.”

“Asshole,” he mutters, but there’s nothing but affection in his tone. They lazily exchange kisses until Yuri feels his eyes drooping, and Otabek pulls him all the way onto his chest so he can sleep with his face buried in the crook of his neck.

Then, so his disdain is absolutely apparent, he mumbles, “A leopard print box and a leopard print ring.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> Again, ao3 likes adding spaces after my italics for some reason- I'm sorry don't bite me
> 
>  
> 
> [ Come chill with me on tumblr: zeldaismyhomegirl ^.^](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> xoxo Cat


End file.
